


safety on

by anode



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Autistic Zoey (Left 4 Dead), Dissociation, Found Family, Francis is an Asshole with a Heart of Gold, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Murder, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Self-Defense, Sexual Assault, Sexual Assault is NOT Fetishized, Sexual Assault is in the Past and Not Between Louis/Francis, Sharing a Bed, Trans Louis (Left 4 Dead), Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Trauma, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anode/pseuds/anode
Summary: it starts with the pounding on the stall door, the blood on his hands as he bashes in the head of an already long dead man on the bathroom floor.no, it started much earlier than this.





	safety on

**Author's Note:**

> so louis is my favorite l4d character and something got me wondering. so, all the main l4d characters have a pretty clear reason they survived. bill is a veteran, francis was in a gang, zoey is hardcore, and louis went to the gun range. so i started thinking about why louis went to the gun range every day, and this story just kind of emerged. 
> 
> if you missed it in the tags, HUGE TW for violence and attempted sexual assault. it is NOT fetishized at all, and i tried to make it an accurate portrayal of trauma as a survivor myself. also louis is trans because :) i love him that's why! ps, i really like his and francis's relationship, and it obviously bounces around friendship and romance. that's just because i like them both ways, so i tagged it as both relationship and romance. you could really read it either way, though i suppose there are a lot of flirting jokes by zoey. oh and another thing: zoey is autistic to me, and so i tagged it. it is not mentioned though. i also hc her as, like, short and stocky! a little powerhouse.
> 
> ONE LAST THING! sorry i talk a lot. anyway, there's a line by louis' mother that is intended by her to be a correction of accidental misgendering. her correction is still..not exactly right. it's not quite perfect language that most trans people prefer, but i wanted to portray her as a worrisome, loving, but new to lgbt issues type of mom. and i also really tried to make all the dialogue realistic. i have a pretty easy time voicing characters in my head so i tested the words out in there first to see if i felt like it was something the character would actually say. if i misstepped there, let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE leave comments or kudos :) i really like feedback and it makes me v anxious not knowing what people think!
> 
> EDIT: 01/19/20 - fixed some shit

 

 

 

it starts with the pounding on the stall door, the blood on his hands as he bashes in the head of an already long dead man on the bathroom floor.

no, it started much earlier than this.

 

 

-

 

 

his coworkers laugh as he passes them, jacket slung over one shoulder, to head to his car. one cocks her head, cracks a quiet joke to another. he dismisses it with a shake of his head. they don’t understand. they aren’t what he is, haven’t done what he has.

they don’t _know_.

at the range, he fires four quick shots into the head of the target. his aim is improving. still, he thinks, _there’s room for improvement_. in situations of panic, he knows, hands shake, quiver. aiming for the head is a risky move.

louis pulls up the pistol, closes one eye to line up the shot, and takes it.

a perfect shot to the chest.

 _dead_.

 

 

-

 

 

he eats his lunch on the drive back, shoveling the burrito into his mouth and chewing fast, no time to savor it. just fuel.

his associates will roll their eyes at him when they spot him. smirk. he’s stuck between hoping that they never know what he does and that someday they do, that someday something brings them to the ground where he once laid, watching the stars bloom in the sky as his entire worldview shifted. as things turned upside down and inverted, went all wrong.

he eyes the bobblehead seated on his dashboard, flicks the head. watches it nod and him over and over. agreeing with him.

into the parking lot he glides, turns into his assigned parking space. shifts into park, flicks off the engine. steps out of the car with ease. a routine, practiced daily.

comfortable.

 

 

-

 

 

flash forward to the present. louis brings his axe down once into the head of an undead man, watches it split in half and run red with gore. he feels nothing beyond relief at his continued safety.

he does not consider that the man might have been someone who mattered once, someone good, someone with a family waiting, nor does he stop to think that the first did too.

he spent far too much time before the world went to shit consumed by it, by the guilt of killing another human. wondering if it was wrong, if he did the right thing. if he should’ve let what could’ve come to pass happen. if it would have been better that way.

now, he doesn’t worry. he knows it doesn't matter anymore, because a world where dead people start walking around doesn’t have to make sense.

he steps over the man he slaughtered and chuckles as zoey makes a face at him.

 

 

-

 

 

it’s later in the safe room that it rushes back to him. he's sitting pressed against the door as his party sleeps. across the room are bill and zoey, curled toward one another, her arm grasping his sleeve. he shields her from the door with his body, and twitches every so often. dreaming, no doubt, of what louis cannot imagine. bill is a man who has seen hell and conquered it twice, is fighting his second war. the world is losing, but bill holds steady. unwavering.

paternal, in the way his gnarled hand is reaching, even in sleep, toward zoey’s frame, barely visible behind him.

louis counts himself lucky that he isn’t as short as zoey, in her five feet two frame. though, from the hordes he has seen her mow down and the trained way she heaves offending bodies off her own, he is certain she far exceeds him in strength. her stocky build seconds this.

francis marks the halfway point between louis and the others in closeness, though he’s against the adjacent wall, hidden behind a table with only his legs peeking out.

francis is a man who fills the air around him with an undeniable presence. he demands power with only his existence, and so rarely is it actually granted. he is a man who, if not for his somehow endearing and yet entirely obnoxious personality, could lead. louis thinks, _too bad he has to open his mouth_. laughs to himself, doesn’t acknowledge the wriggle of genuine fondness inside him.

even if, louis knows, francis is the most obvious threat. besides the zombies, of course.

francis is also a large man. impending with his physique. the inch louis has on him is more than compensated by his wide, strong body. louis is uncomfortably aware that should he ever have to take the man on, he’d be as good as pinned the moment he slipped up, self-defense classes be damned. there’s a clear and present power imbalance there. louis knows that, for all he can train his body, he can’t conquer a man with an easy eighty pounds on him.

he’s not _afraid_ of francis, per se, but he is… well, he’s wary, for certain, but he does his best to hide this, for both their sakes, with the casual jokes he throws out. the positivity he shares with them all. he’s not yet sure whether francis would be uncomfortable or pleased by his unease. he’s hoping the former, but.

he can’t be too careful. can’t let francis know, because then he might be _tempted_.

it is here he realizes he has moved. from his relaxed but alert sprawl he has shifted into a guarded curl. prepared, just in case. he leans back, breathes, thinks of the mindfulness exercises his therapist had drilled into him. five things, he thinks, and begins to list them.

 

 

-

 

 

when he first came out—his _first_ time, of the two—his mother had warned him, her hand on his shoulder, of the things men can do to women— _men who were born women_ , she had corrected herself. she accepted him easily, but her expression lingered in his mind. careful, frightened for him.

it’s that same look that encourages him to remain watchful in public. it’s that same look he begins to think is overbearing as the years pass and nothing happens.

and it’s the very same one that flashes in his mind, blaring, like a television at midnight, the night that it all happens.

 

 

-

 

 

it had been dark and cold, frigid even, as louis made his way to his dorm. he had cursed himself for walking, for expecting it to stay warm and light at eight pm in fucking _october_.

he was so caught in his impotent frustration that he missed the man ducking into the alley. kept walking with no indication, right up until the man stepped in front of him, backed him into the corner with the knife he waved around dangerously.

louis remembers now how quiet it seemed that night, as if all the air had been sucked into a vacuum, taking sound with it.

the man (and it's funny, because as hard as he tries, he can't remember his face then, when he was alive, still breathing, backing him up, but rather all he can see when he tries to remember is the slack in his face, his muscles relaxed, as he laid there, staring upwards endlessly, cooled by death, and the glaze over his eyes) wasn’t tall, was dwarfed by louis and the several inches he put on in his late teens— _thank god for t_ , he had thought—but was strong, broad, and knew how to throw his weight around, so when louis tried to dart the other direction (and later he thinks to himself, _stupid, you idiot, he probably just wanted your wallet, why did you run?_ ), he was grabbed and thrown off balance and onto the pavement, long ago cooled by the absence of sunlight.

he had struggled hard, against the weight of the guy atop him. harder, even, when the man felt the shape of his body and had frozen, then whispered, some sort of slick, sickening delight creeping into his words, “you’re a fucking girl?”

he remembered his mother’s words, once, when she had caught him watching the news, the headlines telling a story of sexual assault and murder.

 _you gotta do everything you can_ , she had said. _kick, punch, bite, whatever you can do to survive. to stop it_. so louis bit down, hard, on the hand pressed against his mouth, didn’t let go even as the man shrieked and hammered him once in the head. knocked him for a loop, sent him into a spiral of muted sound, where things weren’t scary and made less sense.

but then of course, his mother’s voice, serious and firm, _whatever you can do to survive._

dizzily, he had relinquished the peaceful haze, had looked around as he bucked and kicked his feet, as the man’s hand had done something beneath louis’s slacks, the one thing he never told his therapist, even after years of weekly sessions, tucked away in a dimly-lit room. his biggest shame. this is when he had spotted the knife.

sitting, abandoned, not two feet from him, its steel glinting in the light of the moon.

he had felt the way things tilted, shifted around him, changed as he realized what was going to happen.

his mother’s voice in his head. _whatever you can do to survive._

louis had grasped the knife.

 

 

-

 

 

the worst part, he thinks much later, wasn’t the kill itself. he does remember, vividly, the way it felt to push the knife in. how the body had resisted at first, as if asking permission, and then how it so suddenly gave. how it got easier and easier each time, each thrust, until he was sure the man beneath him had stopped moving, beyond gurgling on his own blood, in the throes of dying.

the worst part had been the silence afterwards except for his punched-out, panicked breathing, sitting next to the body and gagging on the smell of copper. looking down and seeing his pants unbuttoned, open at the top, and feeling the slide of blood on his hands as he tried to fasten them.

he remembers, in patchwork memory, shifting and unstable, as bad memories often are, the sirens. the fear he had felt, as a black man at night, as a black man at night who had just killed someone, killed a would-be rapist. the way the law would see it, regardless of the facts, the clear and present danger in front of him.

he also remembers the utter relief he had felt later upon learning about the cameras pointed into the alley, the proof he needed for self-defense, and the woman in the apartment across the street who had seen it all. who had dialed 911 with shaking fingers.

he never asked her name, but to this day he thinks of her. thinks of what might’ve been otherwise.

and thinks of what she must have seen, one man on top of another, the knife. the blood.

when he thinks of her, he finds himself closing his eyes, almost wishing she, too, had closed hers.

 

 

-

 

 

the safe room this time is much larger, two bedrooms to choose from. zoey had taken one look and sighed, shifting her gaze to the men around her. louis had hoped, pleaded in his mind, that she would choose him, take him away to a room where they’d both be safe, but her eyes land on bill and stay. _of course_ , he had thought, _obviously she’d pick the guy who’s like her dad_.

francis, predictably, had rolled his eyes and deemed the situation below him, had taken off to the other bedroom to do whatever it is that francis does.

now louis stands, rearranging the ammo, righting the styrofoam cups on next to the coffee machine, anything he can to avoid going into that room. he had offered to take first watch, but bill had shut him down almost immediately with a wave of his hand. _get some rest, kid_ , bill had said sternly. like he knew.

so louis resigns himself to being trapped in a room, in a bed, with a man he isn’t so sure won’t harm him. he’s getting more comfortable, slowly, in the way that francis, in all his violence and griping, so tenderly handles his teammates when injured. in how he shields them, a first line of defense, when they hear the thundering of a tank. in how he’d once pressed his hand to louis’ shoulder, concerned, as he helped him up after a witch had chased him down, and felt the way he shook. the way his face had split, softened, and his words, his tone, had changed. like he'd cared.

it’s been a long time since he had had to force himself into even breaths in that safe room, watching francis’s shift in his sleep. they’ve all settled into a comfortable camaraderie.

and yet.

he stacks, separates, then re-stacks the cups until bill exasperatedly shoos him out of the room. he takes his sweet time getting there, and knocks at the closed door. when he hears a drowsy “come on in,” he obliges, and immediately blinks in surprise. there is no francis visible on the bed, only a suspiciously francis-shaped mound of pillows. he barks a laugh, unable to stop himself, which unearths his teammate. “what?” he grumbles, and his voice sounds rough from…sleep?

he feels his own eyebrow quirk upwards. “enjoying yourself?” he asks, and he swears he sees francis’s ears go a little pink.

“was a tactical maneuver. to protect me from zombies. can’t bite my ass if they can’t see it,” he grouses, and goes about throwing pillows on the bed in an order that must make sense to him. one over there, another over there, two in the middle, and louis stops paying attention.

“they’ll sure smell it,” he comments, smirks, and manages to catch the split-second flash of amusement on francis’s face, and feels a surge of triumph even as he dodges a pillow.

try as he might, he just can’t not enjoy his and francis’ back and forth, their snippy, immature comments to one another. what started from mutual dislike has shifted into what louis adamantly refuses to describe as banter. and even more adamantly denies to zoey is flirting, as she _ignorantly if he must say so himself_ claims.

 _boys_ , she had called once after a particularly long season of mutual bullying between the two. _let’s cool it with the foreplay._

bill had broke the stunned silence by wheezing out a loud laugh from the front, and that, more than anything, had distracted louis long enough for the moment of awkwardness to pass.

 _flirting_ , he thinks, does not pout, to himself as he tucks into the side of the bed that francis has not commandeered. _completely ridiculous._

francis seems content on his edge of the bed, as far away as he can manage to be without falling off, the two pillows he had earlier tossed now serving as a barrier between them. louis accepts this happily, feels a moderate feeling of safety settle in him—well, as much as possible, that is.

he lets this feeling carry him into a light sleep.

 

 

-

 

 

he wakes blearily only hours later, confused. the weight next to him has shifted. francis is standing on the other side of the bed, like he just crawled out.

louis is far too tired to be entirely sure what is happening, and doesn’t questions francis when he grunts, in a whisper, “gotta go send bill’s old ass to bed. go back to sleep.”

louis hums back, sleepy, and rolls back over into his warm section.

 

 

-

 

 

the second time he wakes is much less pleasant. he is immediately alert at the feeling of something knocking into him. he thinks perhaps that he cries out, makes a sound, because he hears a startled noise as he slips off the bed and scuttles backwards until he presses his back against something cool.

he’s halfway convince he’s in the alley.

shadows are shifting in the dark room and he hears noises, but nothing quite makes sense. it’s dark out, like it was that night, and he instinctively draws his legs up against his chest. he thinks there might be something in his hand from the weight he feels there. _it could be the knife_ , he decides.

he tunes back into his own voice and realizes he's babbling absolute nonsense, something about staying far, far away and the knife in his hand and, of course, he hears the venomous way he spits _don’t fucking touch me_ when the shadow draws closer to him, is momentarily startled at his own vitriol. that he could be so nasty, and yet—yet something. his thoughts are spinning wildly out of control, soup in a blender with no lid. shapeless sludge that might drip from his ears if he leans the wrong way.

he spends a while like that, just kind of perched, ready to attack, against what is probably a wall, in and out of lucidity, until his voice comes back under his own control and he goes entirely silent. a long time later (he thinks, but isn’t so sure), when things are making a bit more sense, he hears a very unsure, “uh, louis?” from across the room.

he suddenly feels about three inches tall and wholly mortified. “oh,” he says, like the idiot he is. he says it again for good measure, blinks a couple of times, tries to adjust to the darkness. he’s in the bedroom of the safe house, he now knows, sitting hunched over on himself like an absolute _lunatic_ , and _oh my god he’s holding a gun_. he presses on the safety switch and half-heartedly launches it onto the nightstand closest to him. “i’m cool,” he tries, hopes he sounds assured and normal and not like someone who just spent an indeterminate amount of time out of reality.

francis gives him a disbelieving, “uh-huh,” which is better than he expected. there is a level of concern leaking into his voice that both unnerves and soothes him. it reminds him of the francis he sees when things go south, when one of them gets hurt. he latches onto that small comfort and feels his body relax, slump over. his head hits his knees, sending a sharp burst of pain through him.

for a moment, there is only silence, then the quiet sound of zoey dropping something outside and hissing “ _shit_ ” under her breath. francis clears his throat.

“you good?” he asks. louis feels the awkwardness seeping into the room.

“yeah,” he answers finally. “did, uh, hm. what happened?”

a pause, then: “came back in here once i woke zoey up. i laid down. guess the pillows got moved in the night—probably you, cause you rolled around all night, asshole—and i bumped into you and you, ah, freaked out.”

“oh,” louis answers. ponders it all, runs his slowly rebooting mind over the words. “sorry, man. i,” he hesitates, doesn’t want to give away anything. decides to anyway, decides francis deserves an explanation. “i don’t like being startled.”

francis snorts, loudly, breaks the spell over the quiet room. “yeah, i _noticed_.” louis can feel his face prickling from francis’s stare, shifts a little. whatever he sees must unnerve him because what he says next is much, much softer. back to the injured-teammate francis. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

louis, suddenly even more exhausted than he already is, responds, unthinkingly, “you’re a big guy, francis. hard to fight off big guys.” immediately, he wishes to snatch the words back up, shove them down and away, somewhere inside himself. the awkwardness has morphed into something different. he can see the white’s of francis’s eyes from here, the thrown-off expression on his face.

he backtracks. “not that i don’t trust you, man. i just mean, uh, shit. i didn’t mean it like that. you’re a cool guy, francis. i like you.” oh god, this is getting worse. francis looks caught between a few different emotions. a hint of amusement and even something pleased diluted mostly by what is quickly becoming outright concern. “goddamnit. you know what i mean. i just. listen,” he wets his lips, “we’re all here for a reason, right? i don’t mean in a, ah, spiritual way. but like, you survived because you’re strong, and, no offense, but i think maybe you’ve done some shit. and zoey is a total powerhouse and her dad trained her to shoot and stuff. and bill.” no elaboration needed there. “what i’m saying is, uh, we all have reasons we’re here. that we survived. i have mine, too.” louis swallows, hears his throat click, realizes he is thirsty. then again, it’s the apocalypse, and he’s felt hollowed out by hunger and thirst since it began. just the way things are now, he guesses.

through his little spiel, francis mostly remained silent, if a little self-satisfied at the part about him. at the end, though, he says, “the kind that makes you act all possessed when a guy bumps you?” he’s joking, an awkward attempt to break the moment. louis can tell from the way the light hits his face that he’s a little desperate to escape this suddenly emotional conversation, and feels a stirring of warmth in his chest. francis would much rather cut off his own leg and eat it than have a heartfelt talk.

he lets himself chuckle, says, “the kind that makes you a mean, zombie-killing motherfucker.”

francis’s answering laugh is enough to send him shifting forward, comfortable, to join his friend back in the bed for a few hours. to rest a little more.

 

 

-

 

 

the next morning finds the four of them gathered around a table on its last legs for breakfast. francis tries to lean on it coolly and jumps back when it groans at him, warns him. zoey is sending looks toward the both of them while bill sucks down the coffee he’d managed to make from the shitty machine. how the beat up looking thing still works louis does not know, but he sure enjoyed watching bill pistol-whip it in coffee craving-induced rage a half dozen times.

the awkwardness from last night has returned full force. louis has the distinct feeling both zoey and bill heard, uh, _sounds_. desperately, he hopes they haven’t misinterpreted them, but he's also keen on not having them baby him either. caught between two evils, he sighs into his half-eaten can of beans, cold. no microwaves here.

he starts to notice that zoey is sending particularly unpleasant looks francis’s way. suspicious looks, her eyebrows down and her mouth pulled. her wrist is working gentle circles of motion in her thoughtfulness. francis cocks one eyebrows as he shovels beans into his mouth and wanders away, as unfazed as he is hungry. bill retreats toward the ammo stack, sending zoey a _look_.

zoey’s on him the instant they are out of earshot. “you okay?” she asks. there’s a look in her eyes he doesn’t like. it’s the same one she gets when she hears a smoker in the ducts above them.

“yeah?” he answers, tries for casual. probably fails, given her expression.

she stirs her can. “just heard some stuff when i was up last night. right after i sent francis away. sounded like some thumping and banging.” she pauses. “then you yelled ‘don’t fucking touch me.’”

louis cringes to himself. she looks at him, perplexed. “i tried to open the door, but francis yelled. told me he had it handled. that you were just having a nightmare.” she stares him down, and he feels like he’s under a high-power microscope. “were you?”

s _he thinks francis attacked me_ , he realizes with a start. then he thinks, _oh shit_.

“no!” he cries, and her eyebrows fly up, alarmed. immediately understanding his mistake, he rushes to correct himself. “well, yes! i mean, yeah. i had a nightmare. dreamed i was showering, but i was using guts as soap. weird, right? anyway, a zombie snuck in, grabbed me and tried to eat me. when francis crawled back in bed, i guess i wasn’t quite awake yet,” he adds a laugh for effect, “and thought it was the zombie coming to get me. so i freaked a little.” skirting the edge of truth, close enough to be realistic but still safe. louis has lied many times in his life, has figured out how to add just enough detail to sound reliable.

zoey’s snickering now. he thanks whoever is listening that she’s not the best at reading people. “oof, man. i used to have dreams like that when i was younger, after me and dad watched horror movies, ’til i got old enough to handle ‘em.” she’s clearly amused, not even the mention of her late father bringing her down. louis smiles, genuinely this time.

“thanks for checking up on me, though,” he says. she rolls her eyes a little, embarrassed.

“gotta check on my bro,” she says through a mouthful of beans. a few of them spill off her spoon and onto her jacket and she shrieks, brushes them off. louis watches them fall onto the floor for the rats—if rats even exist anymore?—and shakes his head fondly. "fuck, man, not my jacket!"

he raises his eyebrow as he eyes the stain, one of many. "i mean, is that really the worst thing you've gotten on there?" her face creases as she thinks about it.

"ugh," she grumbles, pawing at herself, annoyed. "guess not."

after zoey rockets her can into the trash can—“perfect shot, bitches!”—she turns to him, slinging the gun over her shoulder, and winks. “next time you two need a little alone time, let me know.” smirking, an obvious joke, though her face is still a bit cautious. like she's not sure she's convinced.

still, it riles him. “zoey!” he hollers after her retreating form.

from behind him, francis approaches, calls, “what’s she sayin’ now?”

“we are _not_ having sex!” louis cries, and does not sound shrill. francis sends a scandalized and entirely offended expression his way.

“you’d be lucky to have me, asshole,” he grouches. louis opens his mouth to respond and is interrupted by the sound of metal hitting metal. they both whirl, alarmed, and see bill dropping ammo onto the table.

“if you two don’t shut the hell up, i might kill you both,” he threatens as he shoves their rations across the table. “we need to leave soon anyway, and if the zombies hear you two bitching at one another and a horde comes, _you’ll_ be the ones fighting them off.”

francis shoots louis an amused look, and louis returns it. as francis stomps by— _does he do that just to piss bill off?_ louis thinks—he brings one large hand up and pounds on his teammate’s back. it lingers for just a moment, just long enough for francis’s ears to turn pink and louis’s face to feel a little hot, and then withdraws.

louis watches francis as he strolls off, any alarm bells oddly quiet. just, it occurs to him, a sense of security. he feels, weirdly...

 _safe_.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! if you have any ideas or requests for a story (preferably something l4d, mp100, jak and daxter, or related) please do tell! i'd like to do a series of stories in l4d about my various headcanons, be they serious or jokey, and i'd love to do other peoples' as well. i love LOVE comments and reviews of course.
> 
> for the record, i had no other reason for having francis cover himself in pillows and fall asleep other than 1. i thought it was hilarious and 2. it's in character for him, at least my idea of him, to do something like that and then inevitably get caught and pout about not looking cool (and i would totally do it too)
> 
> if you found any issues in my portrayal of events or think there is something out of line/offensive PLEASE let me know! i am a trauma survivor w/ ptsd from sexual abuse but what happened to me is very different from louis' experience here, and if you think i stepped over any lines i should not have, do tell. i will absolutely fix it!saf


End file.
